


Dawn comes earlier in spring.

by GoddessOfGanon



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Confessions, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Light Angst, Loss of Virginity, Mild Drunkenness, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2019-11-16 12:04:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18093956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessOfGanon/pseuds/GoddessOfGanon
Summary: In wine, there is truth.Or ale, in this case.---“There’s so much I had to wait for. A childhood that dithered away into nothingness, a relationship that could last me my days, but wouldn't . . . what I’m trying to say is, thank you for giving me something worth waiting for.”





	1. Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> Though alcohol is featured in this fic, I do not want that to seems like a complicating factor in consent, so let me know if anything changes need to be made to the wording used. 
> 
> Enjoy! Xx

It is a resigned comfort, to stumble into the first tavern in sight after some miles hike, where raucous banter spills from the open windows and the stench of cheap ale overflows the perimeter.

Sypha wrinkles her nose at the smell, though whatever energy she could muster to complain seems fruitless. By her shoulder, Trevor’s face lights like a spark as he leans into the tavern and takes a surveying glance. “Yes,” He says, nodding to himself. “This will do.” Sypha rolls her eyes.

Trevor leaves her side for a moment and manages a path to the bar, lurching a bit over the counter to order two meals and a room for the night. 

“I don’t entertain riff-raff,” The barkeep warns, eyeing up and down Trevor’s torn tunic, patched with scorch marks, and the whip attached to his belt. “We’ve enough trouble in these parts as is.”

“That trouble wouldn’t have anything to do with two particularly wily fire beasts right outside of town, would it?” Trevor grins. As drained as he is from battle, he takes pride in his work. “If so, I can assure you that trouble’s been taken care of.”

The barkeep’s eyes widen in surprise. “You mean-”

“Dead.” He confirms. “Not that they didn’t put up a fight, mind. I-”

“Hey!” A man who had been sitting at the bar lurches from his stool, commanding the attention of the room. “This one’s killed those bastard beasts!” He shouts. All eyes in the tavern turn to Trevor. If there’s any doubt to begin with, the stains on his tunic- red, his own blood, and black, the demon’s, speak for themselves. A unanimous cheer rises to the rafters after one initial stunned cry of relief.

“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” Trevor calls over the din, raising his hands in a surrendering gesture, before sweeping an arm towards Sypha, who stands only a few steps from the doorway, as if considering retreat,  with her arms folded over her chest. “My lovely . . .” The word _assistant_ dies on his lips. She’ll smite him for saying it, and besides, it isn’t at all true. Thankfully, the crowd seems less focused on his verbosity, rather, their own celebration. They draw Sypha into the revelry and the pair is ushered to a table in the middle of the room, _‘best seat in the house’_ a man cheers, clapping Trevor on the back over what’s forming to be a rather nasty bruise. He winces, though soon brightens up as the first pair of tankards are slammed onto the table in front of them. Soon enough, their plates are piled high with grilled meats and potatoes, sweet cakes, and plenty of alcohol.

They entertain stories of the fight for a while, describing their commonplace routine of battling demons with an added energy, spurred by the attention of the tavern. Each patron’s face is turned to them in awe, a bit of victory, like a child being told a particularly engaging story before bedtime. Trevor spares no bloody detail, gesticulating with heavy, wide sweeps the angle of his sword or the motion of his whip, in between and, at times, during, mouthfuls of dinner. When he becomes distracted with a particularly savory bite, Sypha will take over. Disciplined years of being a Speaker have gone to no waste, and her method of storytelling is melodic, retelling their latest adventure like an ancient epic. Trevor sets down the tankard of ale he was about to down, and unbidden, finds himself lost in her story as though he has not just lived the events she’s describing. He never quite valued the Speaker’s oral traditions, never saw it as a magic alongside Sypha’s walls of ice and plumes of fire. What is this trance, then? The tale ends with the final blow being delivered the to strongest of the night horde, seared with flame and at last beheaded by Trevor’s sword. Applause erupts among the crowd, it leaves a ringing in his ears.

“It’s a bit amazing being a hero, isn’t it?” Trevor leans into Sypha, knocking her shoulder with his own while looking much like the cat who got the cream. The crowd disperses to give the pair some privacy, though the ringing in his ears remains. He shakes off that feeling that has seized him, awe, perhaps is what it is, and reaches once more for the tankard that’s evaded his attention for long enough.

Sypha rests her head on his shoulder for a brief moment, a satisfied smile curling the corners of her lips. She’s done her job well today. The warmth of pride settles on her shoulders, resting gingerly above the tenderness resulting from being knocked onto her back more than a few times. “Another victory for Belnades and Belmont.”

“Careful,” Trevor warns, only half-teasing. “We’ll be run out of this place if they find out who we really are, and all this ale will go to waste.”

Sypha’s smile falters, though she cannot deny the truth in his words. Many Wallachians still hold a grudge against the Belmont family name, more so by tradition, now, than anything. The Speaker’s reputation tends to be hit or miss; they may be praised in one city and despised in the next, depending on the dominance the church holds over public thought. They’ve found it safer to travel in plainclothes, which also spares their prized garments from being damaged beyond repair during battle.

“Besides, we both know I get top billing.” Trevor adds, before the mood can drop beneath their attempts of revelry for tonight. There’s something about his smile, when it’s genuine, and not scornful or bitter, that alleviates the worries of her heart.

“In your dreams.” She retaliates, thankful for the change of subject. Trevor smirks, though before returning the jab he raises his tankard to his lips and takes a long gulp. His face crumples, then, into that isn’t quite disgust, but what else could cause him to set down the tankard after only one sip?

“What is it?” Sypha asks, wondering if it speaks to some injury that he hasn’t downed several tankards already. He mutters something like _tastes different,_ which prompts Sypha to pick up her own tankard and take a considering sip. She winces, at first, realizing you’re not supposed to actually _think_ about the taste of beer. You’re just supposed to drink it. Looking around the table, she’s thankful that several of the partons offered wine in reward instead. “Well, it tastes like any run of the mill ale to me.” 

There’s nothing particularly notable about the tavern, either, yet Sypha catches him sliding glances to the wood paneled walls and the ruddy faces of the patrons as though there’s some puzzle within the room that he wishes to solve.

“Suppose I’m what’s different here,” Trevor murmurs. Sypha has to lean in to him to catch the words that seem to fall from his lips without cognizance. He smiles without humor, pushing a hand through his hair, fingers catching on the dried earth caking strands together. “I used to put away about five of these just to make it through the night. But now,” He hesitates, sliding his thumb up and down the curved handle of his glass in a distracted motion.

“But now?” Sypha prompts, all too aware that Trevor tends to regress to speaking in noncommittal grunts when he no longer wants to talk, though hoping terribly that now won’t be one of those times. 

“It doesn’t taste like how it did when I needed it.” Trevor finishes. He’s still not looking at her, which is why he doesn’t see her face fall. She tries to hide her frown, lest he catch it and get offended. He does hate to have any pity directed towards him.

“You’ve come a long way, Trevor.” Sypha lays her hand over his, her tone softening. She remembers being revolted by him when they first met, his stench, his demeanor. His entire existence defined by the scent of ale and the bite to his voice that wouldn’t soften til he’d had some. Sypha had thought he lived that way  _ by choice. _ “That is something you should be proud of.”

“‘Spose so,” He grunts noncommittally, testing another sip from his tankard. It isn’t bad, really. The taste crowns the back of his tongue, just lingering at his throat in a familiar sensation. 

“That’s something you should celebrate.” Sypha continues, raising her glass to  _ clink _ against the side of his. “We’ve earned it, I think?”

Trevor shoots a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he’s misheard, though there's a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Are you proposing we drink ourselves into oblivion?” 

“Perhaps not that far,” Sypha laughs. “But we’ve been through quite the ordeal today. I could do for some distraction.”

Trevor grins, all teeth.  _ “Deal.” _


	2. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't anticipated publishing an update this late, but then again, this chapter is more than twice as long as I planned. Does that make up for it?  
> Either way, please enjoy! Xx

“I knew-” Trevor struggles to speak through his laughter, which he’s unsuccessfully trying to hide behind his hand. “I knew you wouldn’t know what being drunk feels like!”

Of the pints and glasses and tankards of various inebriating brews, the pair has managed to polish off about a third. Trevor, radiating good humor, suggests to his partner that tonight may end in the same manner as their first meeting. When Sypha seems to miss the prompt he reminds her that, after he’d freed her from the Cyclops curse, she had vomited an inch to his shoes. Though then again, her behavior hadn’t gone unmatched. 

Oh, how he had soured their first impressions back then. If it were up to him, their first meeting would have taken place in town square, when they’d fought against the nighthorde and the archbishop’s cronies. He’d sobered up enough to fight, regaining his ground, his element. Beside him, Sypha had been an indefectible ally. She understood his plan of attack and effectuated her own powers into his plans for execution with deliberate skill and speed. She’d shown no fear.

He had felt it first then, nearly ignorable compared to the fervency of their victory. Here was a woman he’d like to keep close to him. Though he never imagined that this half-whispered wish to himself would come true.

Of the frothing pints encircling their table, many still stand full. For the first time Trevor can remember, he’s chosen to linger in the realm of tipsiness- that golden bubble of enhanced light and easy laughter that he doesn’t wish to burst. As such, he doesn’t slur or stumble. He just laughs, and there isn’t any darkness to it.  _ To drink to forget.  _ Trevor would never forgive himself if he forgot tonight. 

The fresh glow on Sypha’s cheeks seems to envelope her with a rosy halo of light that he finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from. The fine curls around her forehead drop over her eyes, prompting her to bat them away distractedly, breaking their eye contact for a brief moment until sky blue meets thundercloud and for a second, he does forget himself. If only for a moment, like a cloud passing over the moon. He shakes off the blush he feels crawling up his neck and slams his fist down of the table, perhaps a bit too harshly, as the froth from the nearest tankard is jolted from its glass and oozes onto the side of his right hand, and returns to his previous occupation.

When his laugh turns into a particularly churlish snort, Sypha glares at him, or at least attempts to, though the effect is lacking when her gaze is unfocused and the flush spreading up her neck can’t be linked to any real anger. “I am-” Sypha falters under his assuming stare, the air of  _ obviousness  _ that lays beneath. “I am not ignorant, Trefor. To most things.” He cannot tell if she has slurred his name, or is referencing the story of his namesake. He can’t quite care to consider, not when he’s blushing too because his name, however mangled, sounds like sweetened honey on her lips. 

Trevor laughs, full and hearty like a fresh tankard. It masks the dagger of infallibility that he feels narrowing in on his chest. “Oh, divulge me then.” He aims to knock her shoulder conspirationarally, though the prick of nervousness his own question has caused upon him makes him miscalculate the movement, and his shoulder ends up hitting hers with a force he didn’t intend. Before he can send the less than apt to respond Sypha spiraling on to the dusty tavern floor, he catches her with one arm around her waist and the other around her arm, as in an apology. 

Sypha tilts her chin up, refusing to acknowledge the fumble as her eyes narrow towards him, the light of her earmark defiance within. “I have traveled all over Wallachia several times over. I can speak several languages, as you know, and I-” 

Trevor is silent, holding her gaze for a suspended moment before he can no longer refrain himself, and his face crumples into laughter as he yanks them back into a  sitting position before doubling over the table, his nose nearly hitting the plate from which he’d just been plucking strips of grilled meat. His fist humoredly meets the surface a few times before he can sit back straight. There’s the light of mischief in his eyes, which deepens as he leans back into her, as close as they had been moments previously. 

“You know, when a woman boasts of her  _ experience,  _ she’s typically speaking of a field less than academic.”

“Oh, please,” Sypha snaps, though a blush has risen high on her cheeks. She doesn’t push him away though, instead she turns to face him, and their noses are almost touching. “I wasn’t talking about _that_ kind of experience, you swine. I’ve never- I’ve never even been kissed before.”

_ “Really?”  _ Trevor doesn’t attempt to hide his surprise, and is rewarded with a sharp knock to his arm for doing so.

“Well, have you?” Sypha counters, jerking her chin away to abandon their previous closeness. She doesn’t lean back though, and Trever studies her profile for a second. Beads of sweat dot her temple, tracking down the rosy slope of her cheekbones. Must be the heat, he assumes. Must be the crowd.

“Course I have.” He replies without thinking, realizing a beat later that his inability to filter his words is what most often gets him socked in the nose. Particularly in the tavern setting. “Well-” He supplies hastily, as if to ward off a blow, “It’s not like I’ve gotten anywhere further than, um, kissing.”

“You’re a virgin.” Sypha echoes, blankly. Shit. Had he overcorrected?

“Not so loud!” He hisses, clamping a hand down on her arm, his gaze darting around the room to look for any sign of reaction from the tavern, any smirks sent his way. For a crowd that had been so attentive to them not long ago, he doesn’t trust that they would choose this opportune time to leave them alone.

Now it’s Sypha’s turn to balk. “But you act . . . experienced. You act  _ cool.”  _ At any other time she’d be loathe to hand him compliments he could hold over her head later on, though she now falters beneath her own intemperance. 

“So-so do you!” Trevor rebuts, regaining his composure just so long as to contradict the phrase that falls all too easily, it seems, from the Speaker’s lips. He retracts his hand from her arm and closes his fist around a tankard, though he doesn’t raise it to his lips.

“Well, we Speakers are like family. Little chance for romance there.” Sypha counters, crossing her arms over her chest as her lower lip slips into a pout. “And my opportunities for meeting men outside of our caravan were limited, going from village to village. If I did find a man I liked, I would have to leave him! It seemed pointless to even try.” She huffs a sigh, pushing a strand of hair that’s fallen in her face aside, before rearing on Trevor. “What is your excuse, then?”

He responds in a similar manner to her, on the defensive. “There have been offers,” He replies gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. He wants to cringe at the baseness of the phrase. “Women in taverns and whatnot. Some people go to some places for some things.” Sypha rolls her eyes at his ramblings, though her heart is beating against the walls of her chest for want of escape. “You know what I’m talking about, right?”  

“As I’ve just told you, no, I don’t know.” Sypha deadpans.

Trevor huffs a sigh, throwing his head back and willing his heart to cease beating so fervently. He tightens his grip on his tankard and throws back a few gulps with no enthusiasm, cringing at the taste of ale which now burns like a varnish coating his throat. Much to his regret he knows this will be his last drink of the night. “Well, whatever. These women act a certain way and make themselves to look a certain way, and it isn’t as though I haven’t been in a low enough place to give them exactly what they want. But I can’t. I start thinking-”

“-Thinking? That doesn’t sound like the Trevor I know.” Sypha laughs, if for nothing than the regret of laughing. He is normally not this serious when he’s about to stake a member of the nighthorde through its heart. Perhaps it unnerves her.

Trevor huffs, sinking a bit in his chair as he folds his arms over his chest. Sypha quiets down, dipping her head in an apology and a motion for him to continue. “Either they didn’t want to fuck me because I’m a Belmont, or they only wanted to fuck me because I’m a Belmont. And I feel used before I even gave them a chance to use me. Made me sick. No one ever wanted  _ me,  _ just me.”

_ I want you.  _

The thought strikes her before she’s able to police the tract of her own thoughts; at once her throat is dry and her heart falters off course, it’s steady, ale-laced rhythm. She jolts at the shock of it, this revelation that’s overcome her. Everything seems blurry for a second, like the emotion of drunkenness has concurrently decided to appear. She curls her hand around the back of her neck, willing the flush to subside. Trevor eyes her curiously, until his gaze wanes in sympathy. “How are you feeling? Shit, look at me, bringing the mood down. Should’ve focused more on making your first time a good one.” His cheeks darken at the double meaning laden in the phrase, though he chooses to ignore it rather than reroute their attention to the subject of discussion he’s hoping to bury. 

Unbidden, he recalls one of his earliest forays into the realm she’s currently traversing, thirteen years old and having just learned to pick the lock to the Belmont family wine cellar. One sneaky sip turning into two, turning into a bottle, until he’d fallen asleep in that dank place only to wake to a pulsing headache and the wrath of his mother, spared only by the amusement of his father. 

It isn’t often he thinks of those old days, before it was all over. It’s not a bad memory, all things considered. He’d likely have risked another attempt, had the house not been razed to the ground weeks later, with his parents still inside. After that, on his own, he would bum alcohol off of women in taverns who thought he was cute, or men who he beat in a fight. It wasn’t long before he could purchase his own without question from the barkeep, as all semblance of youth left him quite early.

“I feel as though I’m away from myself,” Sypha replies, slowly sounding out her own words on her heavy feeling tongue. “A bit removed from what’s happening as it is happening.” Trevor listens to her, dipping his head in understanding. Could he understand precisely what she is feeling, down to the latest turn of thought? She certainly hopes not. Maybe misplaced infatuation was just another symptom of drunkenness, one she hasn’t read about. She’s seen one or two of the few drinkers among her caravan to become more handsy after a pint, though she always understood this as a matter of loosened inhibition, rather than a paradigm personality shift. But that would mean that the warmth the feels between her and Trevor, that draw that begs her to pull him closer,  _ for once,  _ rather than push him away, has always been there, at least, for some time now. 

“And I value your honesty more than I do one night of cheap amusement.”

When she meets his eyes, there’s something in his gaze that wasn’t there before, something deep, considering. It piques a new thought.

Has Trevor ever felt this way about  _ me?  _ She wonders. 

He’s been drunk, since they’ve begun their journey into a world not plagued by Dracula’s reign. The first night of it, actually, that Sypha and Trevor were on their own. He’d refrained for the past several nights, either through his own will or the totality of their injuries that allowed for little more activity than redressing wounds and mitigating their exhaustion through fitful bouts of sleep. Alucard was still with them, then. Though he had accepted that his father could only have died by his hand, he hardly would have stood for their taking revelry in the fact. So Trevor had waited.

That was, until, they came across a small village, and Trevor promptly sniffed out the nearest tavern. Sypha had to steel herself before following. Reluctant as she was to admit it, part of her feared that upon that first sip of ale, Trevor would revert back to his old self, callous and unkind. He didn’t. Of course, he was loud as ever, as argumentative as ever. Though when he laughed, he threw his whole self into it; broadening his shoulders, clutching his belly, snickering like a child. It was a side she hadn’t seen in him until they returned to the Belmont hold well into their journey, when he was well sobered up and had a renewed purpose for himself. It was a relief to see he hadn’t lost that.

At last able to relax, Sypha continued to indulge him, countering his half-assembled debates, challenging his half-humorous jokes. They spoke little of Dracula, what they had just done, though Alucard was brought up more frequently. It was tiring conversation, however, and they ended the night with a discussion regarding whether or not vampires were capable of drunkenness, to which Trevor concluded that, as cruel as the world may be, depriving an immortal being of the potent luxury would be a fate worse than death. Sypha had laughed, though the tankard Trevor had thought to buy for her remained on the table, untouched.

They returned to their covered wagon to rest, not quite ready to start doling out their limited coin for a room in a tavern on a nightly basis, and ended the night in the same manner as when they had first set off from the castle. On their sides, bodies mirrored to curve like silver resting in a drawer.  _ For warmth,  _ they’d always said, though that was the first night that Sypha considered the possibility that that was not entirely true. This thought was cemented when, not long after, the steady heat of his breath against her neck and the weight of his arm slung across her middle, nearly grazing the side of her breast, caused a warm to stir in her belly. She attempted to still her breathing, inch away from the sleeping bear, ignore the sensations that were attempting to trick her into thinking she wanted this. 

Trevor pulled her close-closer than he had previous nights-and murmured “Oh, I could get used to this.” Almost as if to himself, almost as if in a dream. 

And  _ God, please let that be a knife in his pocket. _

The next morning, she said to him, “You don’t remember anything from last night, do you?” First thing. A suggestion, not a question. He was quick to agree. Then, she had assumed he must be used to curling up alongside a woman after a night of drinking. 

Now, she knows such is not the case. 

Shaking herself out of the memory, Sypha turns to him sharply, nearly upsetting her balance again. “Is that the appeal of it, of drinking?” Her words are sharp, spared of any slur to misdirect her intention of getting a straight answer from him. “It’s a masquerade. I do not feel as much of what I normally do, what I ought to. I may not even remember who I was tonight if I am myself tomorrow. Is that why you drink, Trevor?”

He stiffens, though cannot be so offended as to deny her claim. “Why I  _ drank, _ ” He corrects, not unkindly. “Is because- well, I needed to escape. I needed somewhere to go. It wasn’t about who I was, I don’t think. For better or for worse, I never resented my family name. I never tried to discard it completely. I’ve known a handful of my ancestors to be slain before their twenties, but I wasn’t running from that, even when I was hiding out in shithole bars drinking myself beneath the table. I-” He cuts himself off without warning and shrugs, retracting his commitment to any further explanation. Sypha anticipated this, though disappointment saddles her nonetheless.

She wonders, briefly, what about the way she posed her question that caused him to divert the subject matter to his family name. A burden to be sure, one she can understand wanting a break from, if only for a night. 

“Trevor, you defeated Dracula.” Sypha says, as if she has to remind him, and her voice is a blend of incredulity and concern. “That achievement alone is enough to define one’s lifetime.”

“Then I suppose I may die well, then.” He smirks, though any lingering humor is now lost on him.

In that moment, he sounds as he did when they first met, as detached as ever. Sypha is not one to waste time on tears, but the thought of losing him to the person he once was makes her quite suddenly want to cry.

His half-smile disappears completely when he sees her face fall and the sheen of wet overcome her eyes. The guilt he feels is a swift arrow to his chest. He’s never caused another cry by his own word before. His fists, certainly, a kick to the groin, absolutely. But never has he felt the power of speech render one breathless and sorry. In the shock of it, he finds himself speechless.

 “It’s late.” He settles on with an exaggerated sigh, making a move to push away from the table. “Suppose we should be heading up soon. Though it does seem a shame to waste all that’s left.” They pause to consider the several tankards still surrounding them. It would seem more of a chore than anything, to finish them all.

Sypha makes a move to stand, and almost immediately topples into an unfinished meat pie. Trevor reflexively moves to catch her, remembering at the last moment the injury on her arm, and slips an arm around her waist instead.

Dispelling a hearty  _ thanks, but no thanks,  _ as a few more offers of ale and conversation are made in their direction as they pass through the tavern to the stairs that lead to the bunk rooms. Trevor holds Sypha towards his chest, providing a screen behind which she can compose herself. But it’s a short walk to their room, so neither are holding their breath for much longer. 

The tavern’s lodgings are certainly a step above many of their previous stays. They have the room to themselves, for one, where a fire sparks in the small hearth opposite the bed, and a pitcher of fresh water sits atop a stout wooden dresser standing in the corner. Shedding her cloak and folding it over a rocking chair set in the corner, Sypha makes a beeline for the pitcher and pours a cup of water for herself. Trevor is bid silently to her side to do the same. 

After a few glasses of the cool water she feels more like herself again. She’s been on a boat but once before, years ago now, but recalls the feeling of stepping from the unsteady floor over water onto more stable ground.

“How’s your arm?” Trevor asks, with some hesitance in his voice, as though he wasn’t sure if they’d be speaking again tonight.

“Oh,” Sypha holds out her arm, noticing the tightly packed bandages have become loose, likely from the movement of their earlier battle. Lately she’s been having trouble with the wound Dracula had clawed into her arm back at the castle. Though she’d cauterized it herself, it has since been torn open again by two creatures of the night horde, one with long, dripping fangs and again by another with jagged talons.

Trevor stares intently as she unravels the bandaging, as he does whenever her arm isn’t covered by her cloak. She has yet to conclude whether he does this with pity, or the regret of not having stopped it himself.

“You keep staring at it,” She says accusingly. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I fight for myself. You couldn’t have prevented this.” Although this time, she isn’t shouting it from a rooftop while staring him down amidst a mob.

Trevor takes a step back. “No, no, it’s just that there’s some dirt I don’t want to get packed into the wound. I’ll go get some more water, alright?” Sypha turns away and nods vaguely, which leaves him unsure that she’s even heard him. 

He’s quick to return, mumbling mostly to himself, something about infections. He falls silent while clearing her wounds and circling the gauze around her arm. This process must be quite perfunctory to him, Sypha finds herself thinking. He must not give a second thought to the points of contact between them; their thighs pressed together, his hands on her arm, hers on his knee.

Trevor runs his hand lightly over the surrounding area of her upper arm, his brows knitting together. 

“This feels warm, Sypha.” 

“Everything feels warm.” She mumbles in reply. It is difficult to think of anything else but his hands on her skin. Goosebumps rise beneath his touch, and she has to tense her spine to suppress a shiver.

“W-well, we should be watching for infection the next couple of days.” Trevor says brusquely, refusing to think about the multiplicity of meaning her words may hold. She had cauterized it immediately, which should have staved off infection. It has been sealed cleanly along those lines, though the exertion of their more recent battles have stalled its healing.

Now that her bandages have been redressed, they have no reason to be sitting so close. Perhaps they didn’t in the first place. 

With his hands still on her arm, Trevor says “You know, I still don’t believe it.”

Sypha tilts her head, a silent bid for elaboration, and he blinks, as though only then realizing he’s spoken aloud. He could shake his head and dismiss the one-off phrase, could make a stupid quip to cover it. Though that would be ignoring the voice in the back of his head, echoing like a bell.  _ Follow through.  _

He clears his throat. “I said I still don’t believe that no one has kissed you before.”

Sypha jolts, and her arm slips from his lax grip. Their legs are no longer touching, though separated by less than an inch. “Why-why do you say that?”

And here, they’ve reached it, this crossroads. This moment they’ve been hurtling towards since the moment they first met. Even when he was drunk and she was stone, they were still a warrior and a scholar, and there was a prophecy trailing them silently, like a shadow, all the way here. Quite like a flower forced to blossom; sudden, yet beautiful still.

Squaring his shoulders and holding fast to his destiny, Trevor speaks in his customary, measured tone. If he is without confidence, he does not let it show. “I said that because tonight was not the first time that I thought about kissing you.”

For a moment, the world is silent and still. Until, by his words, Sypha’s remaining resolve dissipates. She surges forward to close the distance between them and he meets her in the middle. It’s as invigorating as the first clash of steel in a battle, two well met swords cutting grooves into a worthy opponent. Sypha allows Trevor to take the lead as she commits her first kiss- _ their  _ first kiss-to memory, as she would a story to carry on for generations.

 His kisses flow like a fresh brew; golden, and there’s no end to it. She drinks in his kisses and he takes them in return, until they’re drowning and are forced to part for breath. In a breath of midnight Sypha finds that nothing more still may be enough for her. She is not thinking about her form, her grace while kissing him, not until she pulls away to catch her breath, and insecurity gathers above her like storm clouds.

“Was I- was that okay?” She asks, an uncharacteristic uncertainty overcoming her. Exchanging one’s first kiss is not unlike throwing one’s first punch; the initial shock of it has to fade before the exhilaration sets in, the desire for furtherance.

Trevor starts to nod before she finishes the sentence, reaching for her blindly. He kisses her soundly, both hands curling around the back of her neck to angle her chin. At this first swipe of his tongue across her lower lip, Sypha gasps, thankful she’s already sitting down as the sensation effectively liquifies her. Trevor groans, pulling back by a fraction to seek confirmation that he’s not pressing too far. His pupils are blown wide, and she can just about see the question in her own eyes,  _ okay? is this okay?  _ Trevor nods to her silent question, sweeping a thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. “You’re so good, Sypha,” He chants the words like a hymn, sealing their lips together and his breath comes at once and hot against her neck, there for a second and gone, against her throat, her chest, her neck. “So good,” His kisses are dragging, like he’s not quite sure where his lips should be, where to reach. He seems particularly vexed that he cannot kiss every inch of her at once. 

She’s bent backwards, nearly parallel to the bed. It’s awkward at this angle, she finds, and without thinking she straightens, throws her leg over his hip and moves to straddle him, centering their bodies and reconnecting her lips to his Adam’s apple. She attempts to recreate the motions of her lips against his on his throat, wide, voiceless breaths. Trevor’s breath hitches, she can feel it in the way his chest rises against her that creates a friction between her parted legs. One hand settles over her hip to steady her while the other curls around the back of her knee. She jolts at first, digging her knee into the space beside his hip sharply enough to nearly upset her balance. 

She remembers the stories passed through hushed tones, the Speakers warning her of temptation in the same shameful guise as the church would pass along, that said there is always something to fear, something unknown, and to embrace that, to uphold it, was nothing short of sinful. Nevermind how truly sinful the human experience was. Dismissing the rhetoric seemed simple enough, though she’d still grown up with it, which is perhaps why she leans away from Trevor to take in the breath to ask, “Are we really going to do this?”

“Um-” Trevor withdraws by a fraction, as the the  _ this  _ that they are going to do is punctuated. He isn’t sure how long they’ve spent tangled together on this bed, nor how long it would take to step over a line neither are yet ready to cross.

Sypha ducks her head towards her chest, feeling at once crowded by the heavy rise and fall of Trevor's staggered breathing. “I’m- we’re very tired, Trevor. And we've had more than a little to drink tonight.”

“Right, you’re right.” Trevor nods slowly, withdrawing his hold and sitting up to allow her some space. She misses his warmth immediately, and nearly curses her own rationality. 

“Tell me how this sounds,” She says, reaching for his hand to intertwine their fingers. “We’ll start with what we know, and then we’ll figure out what we don’t. Together, okay? On our own time, at our own pace.”

“Yeah,” Trevor smiles, giving her hand a squeeze. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

They prepare for bed in silence, sneaking fleeting glances when they think the other isn’t looking. Trevor adds some more tinder to the hearth to last for the night, while Sypha flits about the room to pick up his discarded belongings. She lays his cloak over a chair and sets his boots by the door, next to her sandals. 

Trevor’s already under the covers when she approaches the bed, and never mind the fact that they’d been tangled up in each other’s presence only moments ago, she finds herself feeling awkward, almost as though she’s been rejected. Her lips feel raw and tingly, which she supposes is normal after one’s first kiss. There’s still a dizzy quality to air that makes her feels as though she’s walking through a dream. 

Sypha holds her breath as she moves closer to Trevor, though his arms come around her easily once she’s under the covers, without pause or question, like they are two pieces of something that is meant to be connected. 

“Goodnight, Trevor.” She speaks into the darkness after some time has passed, and they’ve melted entirely into each other’s embrace.


End file.
